"I could sing a million songs in perfect key,
And I could perform a Broadway show up on a stage,
But in front of you my mind goes blank...
There's something about your flawless smile that weakens me,
And it ties my tongue every time."

-'Out of Words'
Jesse McCartney

Kurt watched his boyfriend warily from his perch on the edge of the bed, looking on as Blaine poked through Kurt's belongings with a keen curiosity. At first Kurt had been reluctant to let Blaine paw through his possessions, but relented after some persuasion. Blaine would pick up a book or knick-knack from Kurt's shelves, study it for a moment, and then move on to the next object. It hadn't taken long for Kurt to realize the other boy had the attention span of a hummingbird - his mind flitted from one thing to the next with no pause. The only activity Blaine could concentrate on for more than a few minutes was kissing Kurt.

For someone who had never been kissed before a month ago, Kurt had done a lot of kissing in that span of time. Blaine was a physical person; not sexually, per say, but he did seem to enjoyshowing Kurt how he felt about him quite a bit. Kurt still felt his heart flutter every time Blaine took his hand or placed a kiss to his lips, simple things that still left him breathless and always wanting more.

Blaine was now wandering away from Kurt's bookshelves, moving more toward his vanity, examining the various facial masks and skin treatments. Exploring each others' bedrooms had been Blaine's idea; he said it built trust and a greater understanding for the other person. And now that Kurt's possessions were being ransacked by nosy hands, he could see how Blaine had been right. Kurt felt exposed, vulnerable to whatever Blaine might come across. (Not that Kurt had anything to hide, anyway. Certainly not.)

Finally Blaine came full circle in the room, fingers streaking along the shiny reflective surface of the baby grand piano placed catty-corner on the far side of the room from Kurt's bed.

"C'mon," Kurt whined, reaching out for his boyfriend from across the room. "You said we could make out when you finished."

Blaine chose to ignore him, sliding gingerly onto the bench seat of the piano. Immediately his posture improved; he sat up straight, shoulders back, wrists poised to play. Kurt instantly knew that he had also been classically trained. He held his breath, hoping Blaine would play something.

The curly- haired boy seemed to consider it for a moment, cocking his head as if recalling the tune, but then his shoulders slumped once again and his arms returned to his sides. He twisted around to look at Kurt. "I didn't know you played."

Kurt blushed. "I don't, usually. I've only recently . . . picked it back up."

Blaine turned around fully, crossing his legs and leaning forward as if to listen to Kurt better. "How come?"

"Well I - I sort of dropped it after . . ."

"After . . .?"

"After my mom died."

Kurt heard Blaine suck in a loud breath, blinking a few times in shock. His amber eyes seemed to glisten with intensity. "God Kurt, I'm so sorry."

"What for?" Kurt shrugged, shaking his head. "You didn't know. And it happened a long time ago."

Blaine stood, walking over slowly to the bed, as if Kurt was a shy animal he didn't want to scare off. He tenderly took Kurt's hands, settling on to the bed next to him. Kurt figured he would say something like "It's going to be okay"- it was the standard excuse for a reply when you couldn't think of anything else to say. Kurt had heard that too many times in his life - he had actually, at one point, believed it was true. But he grew up and faced the reality that no amount of time or well-intended words would bring his mom back.

Thankfully, Blaine didn't say anything. Instead, he took Kurt's face into his hands and kissed him - hard. Kurt latched on and responded immediately with equal vigor. A tender kiss at that moment could have made him fall apart; he needed this aggressiveness and fire, this blind passion with no thoughts or inhibitions or fear. Only Blaine's touch had the power to make him forget.

Blaine's hands were roaming his body, breathing hard into Kurt's mouth as he undid the buttons of Kurt's shirt. The curly-haired boy's fingers slid under the fabric, feeling the gentle curves and contours of his body, leaving a burning path in their wake. Blaine's mouth was moving south, over the column of Kurt's throat to latch on to the skin of his sharp collarbone, biting and soothing the skin with kitten licks. Kurt's voice was low and needy in his ear, moaning deliciously; his hips bucked up into Blaine's, fingers tight on his biceps. Pleasure clouded every inch of Blaine's brain, making it impossible to think about anything other than touching and tasting Kurt.

Unfortunately, Kurt seemed to have a bit more self-control. With a grunt he pushed Blaine up and off his body, flipping him on to the other side of the bed with surprising ease. Blaine was panting, and he could hear Kurt was similarly out of breath.

"Sorry," Kurt finally managed to say. "I just needed to . . . cool down. I'm just not - not ready yet-"

"It's fine," Blaine interjected breathlessly. "I may have gone a little far. I just wanted to get that sad look off your face." He turned to look at his boyfriend, a smile creeping across his face as he peered into Kurt's brilliant blue eyes. "They change color. Your eyes," he clarified.

"Oh." For whatever reason, Kurt seemed embarrassed by this. "I didn't know that. I just thought they were blue. What color are they now?"

Blaine reached out and touched Kurt's face under his eye with a calloused fingertip. "A sky blue with flecks of gold. But before when we kissing, they were almost a stormy gray."

The smallest of smiles graced Kurt's face just then, still marred by the misery of his mother's memory. He turned his face into Blaine's palm, placing a kiss there and letting his lips linger.

Blaine could tell he was hiding from it, doing his best to avoid having to speak of the tragedy that clearly still plagued him. His hand involuntarily began stroking Kurt from shoulder to fingertips, a circuit that comforted the boy enough that his story was coaxed out of him.

"My mother loved to play piano," Kurt began, his voice lilting and melancholy. "She taught me how to play, though she'd never had formal lessons either. She always said that it was in my blood to be musical." That seemed to amuse Kurt, a happier time probably surfacing in his thoughts. "She was strict, too. Made me practice every day after school, even if it was the last thing I wanted to do. But I suppose it paid off." He paused to wipe his tears on his shirt. "I was young, so some of my memory is probably confused with what people told me, but when I was around seven, she got sick. I hardly noticed, being my carefree child self, but I see now what I didn't see back then. She was out of the house often, or sometimes too sick to get out of bed. I never thought anything was amiss, until-," his voice broke off in a choked sob, "-Until she told me goodbye."

Blaine's heart sank in his chest like a rock.

"I came home after school one day, and she called me up to her bedroom. She was laying under the coves, her face was pale and grey. I remember thinking she was playing a game." His laugh was not at all humorous. "She pulled me into her lap, even though I was too big for that by then. She kissed my forehead and said, 'Kurt, remember that mommy loves you. Remember that mommy is sorry.'"

Blaine's tears threatened to spill over onto his cheeks, his throat closing up and his nose burning, but he pushed away the urge to let them free. For right now, Kurt needed him to stay together so he could crumble. He snatched the older boy up into his arms and squeezed him tightly, as if he would fall apart without someone to hold him together. And maybe that was true.

Kurt said nothing more, and he didn't have to. Blaine was familiar with the way death crept inside a person silently, taking them from your life all at once, without a warning or a chance to say I love you one more time. Both of Blaine's paternal grandparents had passed away, of different causes but around the same time. His dad always said that Grandpa died of a broken heart - he just couldn't live without his wife by his side.

Maybe Blaine didn't believe in true love, which was mostly influenced by his parents' strained relationship, but the boy did believe in anchors. He believed that there would be one person in your life, no matter the age or gender or relation, who would hold you to the earth. Soul mates were ridiculous notions meant to convince people that they were destined to be with one person the rest of their lives. There was no one person on the planet who you are meant to be with; that would take away any semblance of free will. But one person will keep your feet on the ground, no matter how lost or sky bound you become; they will anchor you to life. They become what you live for.

Blaine sincerely believed Kurt was his anchor. In that moment, he never felt more connected to another being than the quivering boy in his arms. And he knew, with his arms wrapped protectively around Kurt's middle, that he would do anything to defend him. Come hell or high water, Blaine would prevent him from experiencing any more pain than he already has.

When Kurt had calmed down and was nuzzling into Blaine's side, he felt safe and warm enough to speak again. "I think my mother's death affected me more than I realized. After the . . .news spread, my teachers stopped grading my work, my friends shied away from me and my perpetual gloominess. I hated that people were treating me different. I never really left that behind; the arrogance and unadulterated sarcasm I hid behind was a defense mechanism, meant to keep people away who would hurt me the same way my mom's death did. I just wantedfriends, and to not get slammed into lockers, and to have my mom back . . ." A strangled cough left his throat. "I didn't realize I was going about it the wrong way."

"What do you mean?"

"I was waiting for someone to come to me. I never thought about approaching someone and asking them to hang out, or go on a date with me. I don't think it ever occurred to me. If you hadn't worked up the nerve to come up to me . . . we probably would never have gotten together. Which scares me – I mean, how many opportunities did I miss out on growing up because I was too afraid to commit myself to anyone or anything?"

Blaine pondered this for a moment, his hands still rubbing Kurt's arms soothingly. "I can't tell you that," Blaine replied. "But I can encourage you to step out of your comfort zone more. That's what I'm here for, right? To support you."

"Yeah," Kurt said quietly, sniffling.

"And you performed a solo in front of the Glee club, Kurt. That's huge for you. Now maybe if you're ready, you can audition for a solo for Regionals."

"Yeah, maybe," Kurt said, his voice sounding far away and sleepily.

Within a few minutes, Kurt was asleep, sprawled out across Blaine's chest and lap. The boy chuckled, leaning back and figuring he might as well take a quick nap too, when a flash of white caught his eye. On the table next to Kurt's bed, folded up and tucked under his lamp, was a small square of lined paper. With a smile widening on Blaine's face, he pulled the paper out and unfolded it carefully, not wanting the sound to wake Kurt. There, in familiar scrawling red ink, was Blaine's note, crinkled and wore down but still legible.

Don't listen to everyone else.
You're extraordinary, Kurt.
Never forget that.